


Slavery Scraps

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [29]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, M/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3940843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various scenes and short fragments of different slavery-related stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. 
> 
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different stories.

            “Baltasar _has_ a girl, Father,” Roan corrected with a smile. “At least, he _talks_ about one all the time.”

            “Hardly _all_ the time,” his cousin insisted, tossing back a mouthful of ale.

            “Not that serving wench, I hope,” the King remarked. “That _always_ leads to trouble with the other servants.”

            “No, no, Uncle, she was one of the slaves that came in last month,” Baltasar reminded him. “The same batch as”—he nodded his red head towards the lovely brunette seated beside his cousin, who quietly murmured, “Lilitha” as a reminder—“Lilitha there. Blond hair, curly? You’ve seen her.”

            “How could he have seen her?” Roan protested lightly. “You keep the poor girl locked up in your room all the time. She must be going crazy, shut up in there.” Baltasar rolled his blue eyes. “Bring her down to dinner tonight.”

            Baltasar almost did a double take over the mug of ale. “Bring Natasha down to dinner?” he scoffed, though he couldn’t think of an immediate objection.

            “Why not?” Roan persisted. “You think she’ll run if she’s not locked up?”

            “ _No_ ,” his cousin replied shortly, “but—“ He sighed, then gestured at Lilitha. “Look at your girl. She’s picked up reasonable Common Tongue, started reading, all in a month. She sings, she draws, she cooks—Natasha can’t even sew. Look at this.” Baltasar leaned over the table to show the sturdy but clumsy stitches in a rip in his shirt sleeve. Roan and Lilitha grimaced. “Natasha can barely get out ten words in Common,” he added, sitting back.

            “And most of them probably aren’t for mixed company,” Roan teased.

            Baltasar ignored that. “My room’s a bloody toy box for her now, and all she does is put together puzzles all day. She’s pretty good at it,” he added as an afterthought.

            “Baltasar, bring the girl to dinner,” Roan repeated. “Maybe she’ll have a talent for something _outside_ your bedroom.”

            “Fine, if you want to see the little savage, I’ll bring her to dinner,” Baltasar conceded. “Just don’t expect brilliant conversation.”

            **

            Her favorite place to sit—one of them, anyway—was in the deep sill of the window that looked out over the back garden. Master had ignored that space, stored a few miscellaneous items there, but one day she had taken the chance and cleaned it off. All it needed was some dusting, and she lined the cold stone with a couple of pillows and blankets from the trunk. She had seen Master looking at it one day, but he never said anything.

            The back gardens were an extensive collection of flowers and shrubs in a riot of colors, though she couldn’t pick out the species from this distance. She thought she could see a fountain, buried in amongst the vegetation, and in the distance were the lush green orchards Master brought her fruit from. She loved the outdoors, but the window seat was as close as she’d come to them since the day she entered the castle.

            Suddenly the heavy oak door began to creak, then swing open quickly as Master stomped in. He stomped everywhere, really, no matter his mood. As ever, the first thing he did was to search for her, as if he really thought she’d wander out again.

            “Natasha!” He said something else that was fairly unintelligible to her, but from his vigorous pointing she gathered that she was to come downstairs.

            Halfway down the stairs he seemed to change his mind and bounded up the steps right past her. He began digging in the large wooden wardrobe and finally yanked out the nice green dress he’d brought her. He spoke more, but she didn’t understand it. He dropped the dress over the railing of the balcony and Natasha ran to catch it. “Wash,” Master said, along with other things, pointing towards the bathroom. “Dinner,” but he pointed towards the door to the hall and she was confused again. He repeated himself, then sighed in frustration and headed back downstairs. He took her slender shoulders and pointed her towards the bathroom again. “Wash,” he instructed, giving her a slight push. That much she understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual reference:  
> Baltasar--Sean Bean  
> Roan--Viggo Mortensen  
> Lilitha--Liv Tyler  
> Natasha--Natasha Lyonne


	2. Chapter 2

"You're sure you're not hurt?" Beck asked for the third time as they followed the guard down the dimly-lit hallway.

"I'm sure."

"Because you're covered in blood," he pointed out.

"It's not mine."

Beck stifled a sigh. Alrik was never the chatty sort, of course, but he was in a mood even fouler than usual, though Beck suspected not many others would notice the difference.

"You did a fine job," Beck assured him. "The King will be very pleased."

"The King sent good warriors to be slaughtered," Alrik replied shortly.

The guard glanced back at them nervously and Beck tried to smile at him reassuringly. He shifted the chain connected to Alrik's bound wrists to his other hand and prompted, "Tell me again, I've forgotten--how many bodyguards were surrounding that warlord?"

Alrik gave him a sidelong glance that said he wasn't going to be cajoled into a better mood. "You have a bad memory for a war advisor."

The three of them turned a corner into an even darker, narrower stone passageway. "I remember now," Beck continued cheerfully. "Three, wasn't it?"

Alrik glared at him. "Six," he corrected.

"Of course, of course," Beck agreed. "Six bodyguards...small fellows, were they? Probably pulled from the ranks of the gardeners at the last minute?"

Alrik sighed, giving in. "They were trained Kjell warriors," he explained, repeating the story he'd already told Beck on their way back to the castle. The guard, who had overheard many instances of Alrik's prowess on the battlefield, tried to eavesdrop casually and gather up details to share in the kitchens later. "They fought well," Alrik added quietly. "They--"

Alrik stopped in his considerable tracks and Beck, attuned to his movements, paused as well, instantly alert to any danger that Alrik sensed. The guard moved on a few more feet before he noticed that his charges were not following, and then he too became somewhat alarmed--but the only thing the close hallway led to was Alrik's room. For his part, Beck could find nothing amiss either, and after a moment he asked, "What is it?"

Alrik sniffed. Something smelled--different. He couldn't quite place it yet, but... "There's someone in there," he finally decided, nodding towards the cell door ahead of them.

Beck looked pointedly at the guard, who shrugged. "Me shift just started," he explained. "Haven't seen anyone go by, though."

Beck rolled his eyes and pulled the ring of keys off his belt, reaching for the cuffs that restrained Alrik's hands. The guard looked slightly alarmed. "Hey now, ain't you supposed to wait until he's in the cell before you unchain him?"

"Oh, come now, my man," Beck replied jauntily, freeing Alrik with a few clanks of the metal key. "Do you really think these little bracelets could keep him from killing you?" The guard's eyes widened as Alrik, ignoring him completely, stepped around him to approach the cell door. "I mean, you're exactly as safe as you were before, which is to say, not very much," Beck continued pleasantly, "so I wouldn't worry too much about it, if I were you."

"Unlock this door," Alrik said flatly, staring into the darkness of the room beyond it.

"Um, right, then," the guard agreed, trying to stay as far as possible from Alrik as he turned the rusty iron key in the door's lock. Still surveying the area cautiously, Alrik pulled open the squeaky door and stepped over the threshold into the stone cell, which was admittedly more spacious and better furnished than most dungeons. But the instant he was inside, the guard slammed the door back in place and locked it behind him--so he was trapped, just like in any dungeon.

Alrik glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the guard had smugly turned his back, no doubt feeling much more secure now that the dangerous warrior was contained. So he was particularly startled when Alrik reached an arm through the bars of the cell door, wrapped it around his throat, and yanked him back against the metal. "How about getting me something to eat?" he growled in the panicking man's ear, then released him with a contemptuous shove. Beck tried not to smirk as the man scrambled past him, heading directly for the opposite end of the hall.

Beck stepped up to the door, Alrik's discarded chains in hand, as his charge prowled cautiously around the poorly-lit room. "Maybe they were cleaning in here again," he suggested. Alrik snorted. "Do you want some more light?" Typically, Alrik ignored him and disappeared around the corner which separated the bathing facilities from the rest of the room. Suddenly there was a squeal--a very un-Alrik-like noise--and some scuffling, and then Alrik reappeared, dragging something behind him, something which he thrust irritatedly into the light from the hallway.

"What," he demanded angrily, "is _this_?"

Beck surveyed the shaking creature kneeling on the floor. "Looks like a girl to me," he decided.

"I know it's a girl," Alrik snapped. "What's she _doing_ here?"

Beck took a closer look, as close as he could get from outside the cell, anyway. He wasn’t allowed to have the keys to the cage where Alrik was kept, only those to his shackles. “Good skin, clean hair, but look at her wrists,” he observed thoughtfully. The skin around them was red and raw. “I’d say she was a prisoner from the royal household, or perhaps a temple.”

“Are they running out of prison cells?” Alrik asked him acidly.

Beck let the tiniest bit of a smirk cross his face. “I would assume the King sent her to you as a gift. A reward, for a job well done.”

Alrik scoffed, derision in his tone, and turned away, more interested in getting out of his grimy armor. “Not so important, then, is she,” he muttered, “if the King sent her here to be slaughtered.”

“Oh, stop,” Beck chided as the girl reacted to this perceived threat by scrambling to the far corner of the cell door, away from both of them. “Calm down there, lass,” Beck told her in a more gentle tone, kneeling beside her on the other side of the bars. “Do you know who this is? This is the great warrior Alrik! It’s an honor for you to serve him.” Well, that worked with some girls. The effect was ruined by Alrik snorting in the background as he pulled off his chest plate. “Um, what’s your name, then?”

“Car-Carina,” the girl stammered finally.

“Well, that’s lovely,” Beck assured her. “Why don’t I go make sure there’s going to be enough dinner for both of you, and you can… get acquainted?” he added suggestively. This idea didn’t seem to please either of them. The girl he could understand, but Alrik was difficult to comprehend sometimes. He preferred to choose his own women, and there was no shortage of those who willingly followed him to bed; but this girl was pretty enough, and as a newly-acquired slave, she could’ve ended up someplace far worse, in Beck’s opinion. “I’ll thank the King for his generous gift,” he added pointedly to Alrik as he turned back down the hallway. “You fought well today,” he repeated once more, with sincerity.

“As did you,” Alrik finally answered.

Nonchalantly he removed his armor, setting it aside to be cleaned later. Blood, dirt, and sweat streaked his skin and the water he splashed onto himself from the basin seemed to do little good. He would enjoy a thorough bath soon, but it was difficult to relax with the stranger—the damp-eyed, sniffling girl—cowering in the corner. He kept an inscrutable eye on her, trying to decide what to do with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual reference:  
> Beck--Sean Bean  
> Alrik--Brad Pitt  
> Carina--Rose Byrne


	3. Chapter 3

            The first thing Sandro noticed when he strolled into the slightly darkened lounge was the music. Piano, smooth and confident, pleasant to listen to but also quiet and unassuming, the perfect backdrop to conversation and reading. Those qualities were no different from the usual music he heard in the lounge; the regular musician, Willie, was an expert in the creation of agreeable but unobtrusive music. Willie was not, however, nearly as stylish or classical in his technique, tending more towards the generic and tinny, in Sandro’s opinion. Willie also was not apt to play minor-key dirges that sounded better suited to a funeral than an exclusive gentlemen’s club lounge.

            The young man seated at the piano in the corner near the less popular books must belong to someone; his blue-grey suit was well-tailored, but even from the back Sandro could see the fabric quality was not on par with those of the club’s members. A new acquisition, then, perhaps? Intrigued, Sandro drifted closer, admiring the slim figure and brown, curly hair with just a hint of red. He didn’t remember any chatter among the club members about someone bringing in a new boy, although granted he tried to rise above such idle gossip most of the time. Sandro took a seat a few feet away from the piano, near a large potted fern, his gaze traveling over the slender, graceful fingers manipulating the keys and up to the lad’s face. He was surprisingly young to be so talented, Sandro thought, judging him to be in his early twenties, with not-unappealing cheekbones, a fairly delightful chin, and—

            Blue, blue eyes. Startlingly blue eyes, when they met Sandro’s own probing brown ones with just the slightest hint of defiance and, perhaps, bitter amusement before dropping back to the ivory keys, obscenely long lashes weighing them down. In a moment, Sandro decided, he would signal for the maitre d’, ask who exactly this young man belonged to—whenever he got tired of looking at the lad, which he had a feeling might be a while—

            “Top drawer, eh? By G-d!” snorted a rather crass voice far too near Sandro for his liking. On the other side of the potted fern, in a wine-colored wingback identical to his own, sat a gentleman in a mustard-colored suit, his sandy hair unkempt and his nose slightly ruddy from the lounge’s port. Sandro used the term “gentleman” loosely in this case and avoided wrinkling his nose in distaste only because of his superior breeding.

            “Very fine playing,” Sandro allowed carefully, thinking as always that the true gentlemen’s club had really gone downhill when it allowed any wealthy industrialist with a full purse and a halfway decent grasp of the language to join. Perhaps less than halfway, in the case of Renzo, but then again his purse was _very_ full.

            “Could be a bit more _cheerful_ ,” Renzo insisted, loudly enough to draw stares from nearby. Sandro closed his eyes briefly and wished the potted fern between them were larger. “Play something a bit _jauntier_ , boy!”

            Without looking up or even breaking the rhythm of the tune, the young man switched to some awful, fast-paced thumper that sounded fresh off the floor of the music hall. Sandro winced, but the melody—again, a term used loosely—seemed just what Renzo had had in mind, as he swigged his next glass of port in good humor, oblivious to the narrow looks he was getting from other members in the room. Sandro surmised that the melancholy piano player—who was not even looking at the keys now, but rather staring upwards as if pleading for divine intervention to spare him from creating these ghastly noises—was one of the many souvenirs Renzo had brought back from his travels in the East, a trip which had kept him out of polite society just long enough for them all to hope his presence in their midst had just been a distasteful dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual reference:  
> Sandro--Stephen Fry  
> piano player--Hugh Laurie


	4. Chapter 4

            At first Lelas thought the sound was merely thunder, or some other product of the storm—the tarp roof flapping in the wind. Then he heard the voice, carried through the rain and the thick oak door: “Castle! Is there anyone in there?”

            The shout put him on edge: the only scout still on his rounds was Wulven, and Baltasar and Jesseb weren’t due back from their expedition for months. At any rate, they wouldn’t refer to the compound as a ‘castle.’ But Lelas knew of no other human beings on this side of the mountains.

            In the East there were roving gangs of bandits, though, so he opened the viewing door carefully and peered out. A man, very dark and shadowed in his hooded cloak, stood in the downpour, with two horses waiting behind him. One of them appeared to hold a second person.

            “Who are you?” Lelas demanded suspiciously. “What do you want?”

            The man pushed his hood back, exposing more of his face to both Lelas and the storm. Not that the rain mattered, since he was thoroughly soaked anyway. “I’m just a traveler,” he replied evenly. “We seek only shelter from the storm for the night.”

            Lelas eyed him warily. It could easily be a trick, to make him open the gate to a flood of robbers. “A traveler?” he repeated skeptically.

            “I swear, we mean you no harm,” the man promised, sounding just a bit more desperate. “If you will give only my woman shelter for the night I will camp outside your walls. She’s—“

            “Lelas! Who is it?” Lord Kerrigan stood on the balcony across the courtyard, wrapped in a robe against the chill air.

            “Strangers, sir,” Lelas replied, half relieved that the decision was now out of his hands. “Travelers. A man and a woman.”

            An unusual combination, Kerrigan thought. “Let them in, for goodness sake,” he ordered. “The night’s fit for neither human nor beast.”

            Lelas gave the stranger one final warning glance before replying, “Yes, sir.” He shut the viewing door, then lifted the heavy beam that barred the gate. As soon as he could do so the dark man slipped inside to the shelter of the courtyard, drawing the horses after him.

            As soon as the two of them were indoors Lelas shut the gate hard, dropping the beam back in place. He turned to assist the visitor with his horses and found himself staring up at the second rider, heavily wrapped in cloaks and blankets. Her face was the most beautiful he had ever seen, as pale and full and glowing as the moon, framed by tangles of dark, wet hair. Lelas didn’t even realize he had stopped short until the stranger had to step around him, yanking several of the rain-soaked layers off the woman before helping her down. He spoke to her, softly, for a moment and she nodded, then he turned to unburden the horses.

            Kerrigan stared down at the newcomer, assessing him. After a moment he heard a throat clearing behind him and turned to see a young brunette wrapped in a coat. “Shall I prepare a room for them, milord?” she asked, remarkably alert for the hour.

            “Excellent,” he affirmed. “And some hot food, whatever’s the fastest.” She nodded and hurried off.

            Kerrigan felt a presence slip up beside him and knew Dezrin was also judging the man in black below them. “What do you think?” he asked finally.

            “A man who carries that many weapons—and knows how to use them—attracts trouble,” the younger man decided, noting the sword at the stranger’s side and the knives on both his person and his horses.

            “Maybe,” Kerrigan shrugged, heading for the stairwell. “But he could also get himself _out_ of any trouble.”

            “We can camp here in the yard,” the stranger was telling Lelas as Kerrigan approached across the cobblestones.

            “Nonsense!” the older man insisted loudly, drawing the visitor’s attention. “A room is being prepared for you. You’re our guests. Welcome to the House of the Blue Ocean.” Kerrigan made the traditional gesture of greeting, touching both hands to his forehead and then holding them out. “I am Lord Kerrigan.”

            He noted the way the man’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his House, but he repeated the gesture of greeting, if somewhat awkwardly. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he replied in a low, calm tone. “My name is Arthen. My wife and I are travelers from the North.”

            Kerrigan knew of nothing in the North but the forests and the hills, and beyond that the endless ice, but he didn’t question further. That could wait until morning, when his guests were not so exhausted. Also the term ‘wife’ was not a word he had heard in quite a while, and then only in the East.

            “Welcome, Arthen,” he repeated with a smile. “Let me show you to your room. Lelas will see to your horses.”

            Arthen nodded reluctantly and took the woman’s hand in an affectionate gesture that made Kerrigan smile fondly. As she stepped forward her cloak pulled away, revealing a _very_ pregnant figure, and Kerrigan’s smile grew. No wonder the dark man looked so jumpy—the woman must be due any day now. “Congratulations,” he said pleasantly. “May your house increase a thousandfold.”

            The young woman sighed and placed a hand on her swollen belly. “Not a thousand, please!” she responded wearily. Kerrigan laughed and Arthen smiled, just a tiny bit.

            Kerrigan offered the girl his arm. “If you would do me the honor,” he queried, and she accepted with a smile when Arthen shrugged and released her hand. Together they slowly climbed the stairs, the girl leaning heavily on her escort, with Arthen trailing behind.

            “I’m sorry,” the woman murmured, wobbling against Kerrigan as they reached the second floor.

            “Think nothing of it,” he assured her, steering them towards the room where Denarii stood. “We’ve had three babies within the last year here. We are quite used to it.” He nodded at Denarii, signaling her to go back to bed. Moria could easily take care of their guests for a few more minutes; she was even now bustling around the room, setting some food on the table by the fire. Kerrigan also noticed the look that passed between Arthen and Dezrin, the look of two dangerous men acknowledging each other. Kerrigan didn’t think they’d have any trouble tonight.

            “Hullo there,” Moria greeted brightly as they entered. “You two look half-drowned. Here, let me help you with that, young miss.” The blond hurried to remove the new woman’s damp cloak, raising her eyebrow at her state but not missing a beat. “Goodness! Congratulations, missy. Here, come sit by the fire and have a drop of tea. Go on, it’ll warm you up inside. Just lemongrass, nothing strong.”

            When Moria took over, people were helpless to resist, and Kerrigan watched in some amusement as the dangerous and protective stranger let his woman be guided out of arm’s reach by the slight blond. Moria glanced back at his bemused expression and eyed him up and down. “I daresay you could do with some, too, sir, and some hot food.” She shrugged as she ladled steaming mush into a bowl and set it before the dark-haired girl. “It’s only porridge, missy, but it’s hearty and won’t trouble your stomach none, nor that of the little one.” The girl blushed faintly but smiled her thanks. Kerrigan nodded at Moria and she headed for the door. “If you want a hot bath, the tap’s behind the screen,” she added, pointing to the corner. “If you need anything at all, my room’s just down the hall. Have a good night now.”

            “Sleep well,” Kerrigan told them, following Moria out the door. “We’ll talk in the morning,” he added to Arthen, who nodded.

            “We greatly appreciate your kindness,” the stranger replied. Kerrigan nodded and pulled the door shut. He was not surprised to hear, a moment later, the sound of the bar being lowered across the inside.

**

            The youth were just clearing away the remains of lunch when Lelas shouted down from the watchtower. “Riders coming!” Arthen immediately went for the stairs to see for himself, but Lord Kerrigan merely stretched in the afternoon sunlight and waited for the rest of the report. “Six horses,” Lelas continued, ignoring Arthen’s presence beside him in order to concentrate. His eyes were the best in the whole compound, leading to his frequent appointment to the watch; Arthen could barely make out the dark smudge moving among the hills, let alone count the riders. “They’re going slowly.”

            “Travelers, perhaps?” Kerrigan suggested to the man beside him. “Or have the peddlers finally made it beyond the mountains?”

            “Could be scouts,” Dezrin countered. “If they met up for some reason.”

            “Maybe it’s the expedition returning,” said Garielle brightly, sweeping some scraps into a pile on the floor. “Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

            “It would indeed,” Kerrigan agreed thoughtfully. “Baltasar _is_ somewhat overdue.” He raised his voice to reach the watchtower. “When will they arrive, Lelas?”

            “At their pace, not for hours yet,” the blond replied. “They’re still winding through the hills.”

            “We could send someone out to meet them,” Dezrin pointed out. “Get the jump on them.”

            Kerrigan smiled at his warrior’s instincts. “Alright,” he finally allowed, and the young man was on his feet instantly. “You and Arthen take a closer look at them. Don’t do anything daring,” he added warningly. “If they look hostile, come back here and report.”

            “Yes, sir,” Dezrin sighed. He signaled one of the boys to fetch a pair of horses. “Arthen!” he called up to the tower. “Come on! We’re going out for a look!”

            The older man in black nodded and dropped down the ladder from the watchtower, agile as always. He threw a glance at one of the women, a pale, dark-haired figure who was corralling some of the small children, and she looked up and smiled as if he had spoken to her. He smiled back, just a little bit, to say goodbye, then swung up onto the horse that had been brought and rode out the gate behind Dezrin.

            “Should we keep our routine, milord?” asked Denarii, in her soft but firm voice.

            “Oh, yes,” he assured her. “The work must continue, after all. Perhaps we might even have a bit of a party tonight to welcome our visitors, if we have visitors.”

            “I’ll inform the kitchens, milord,” she replied smoothly.

            She started to turn away but he took her arm and maneuvered her gently onto his lap. “You’re feeling better today, then?” he queried with a warm expression.

            She nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m to get to bed early for a while now, according to Farilyn, but other than that I’m doing well.”

            “And the baby?”

            “Very well also, sir.” She smiled a little bit. “Lelas insists that she will make an excellent watch—he says he can already tell her eyesight is above average.”

            Kerrigan laughed. “He always says that, doesn’t he? I hope he’s right.” He let her stand. “Alright then. Don’t work too hard.”

            “Yes, sir.” She hurried off to make sure all the schedules were being adhered to. Denarii might appear to be sweet and shy, but she kept the whole compound organized, and woe to anyone who misused their work time. Kerrigan knew she would make an excellent First Woman, and he was right.

**

            Dezrin and Arthen rode quietly, each keeping watch for evidence that the approaching riders had changed their path or speed. They did not ride their hardest, which wasn’t necessary yet, but they planned to overtake the visitors in less than two hours. There were very few people of any sort on this side of the mountains; and almost all of them lived in the compound. The others that were known lived far to the North and had never been seen by any but Arthen and Aldith.

            Dezrin worried that perhaps in his expeditions East, Baltasar had stirred up too much interest in the land to the West, perhaps attracting exiles or out-of-sequencers with ambitions of starting their own house. Exactly as Lord Kerrigan had done—except he had been first, strong enough to actually make it work. Dezrin was an out-of-sequence child himself, and he understood how they were shunned in their House. Still, if you wanted to make something of yourself in the world, you didn’t do it by stealing another person’s territory.

            Arthen was more concerned, as always, about bandits or more organized conquerors. He had seen much of the world, much more than anyone else at the compound, and it still amazed him how isolated and sparse this population was. The land was good enough, excellent in some places, and could support many more, and he feared that inhabitants of a larger, more organized nation—from the South, perhaps, or from over the Blue Ocean to the West—might someday decide to occupy it. They would meet fierce resistance from the current people—they battled wild animals and practiced on each other constantly, though they did not often see real combat—but through sheer numbers they would surely prevail. And that was something he hoped never to witness.

            Finally they found themselves on a rise above the travelers’ path. They tied their horses far from the edge and laid down on their bellies to avoid being seen from below. “Two men in front there,” Dezrin offered quietly.

            “The other two riders are women,” Arthen whispered in return.

            “One pack horse,” the bald man continued.

            Arthen voiced the question on both their minds. “Where’s the sixth horse?”

            They waited tensely for a moment, scanning the hills below, until finally one more rider came out from around the outcropping and hurried to the head of the line. Dezrin relaxed and grinned, so suddenly that Arthen stared at him. “That’s Baltasar,” he explained, scrambling to his feet. “Our expedition is returning.”

            “Are you certain?” Arthen asked as the younger man began to wave his arms to attract the attention of the riders.

            “Of course. Baltasar!” Arthen stayed on the ground, watching the reaction of the riders as Dezrin’s shouts reached them. They wheeled their horses around in surprise, until the leader spotted Dezrin and waved back. “Come on, let’s go meet them.”

            Arthen sighed and finally stood, following the younger man to the horses. His wife said he was too suspicious of people, but it was only bad past experience that drove him to caution. Still, Dezrin was a good warrior, and if he was certain of the party’s identity, Arthen would trust him.

            It took them perhaps another forty-five minutes before their road converged with that of the expedition. Dezrin reminded Arthen of who Baltasar was—an original member of the House who had once been a restless traveler. He seemed to still enjoy the hard life of travel, since he always volunteered for the expeditions back to the East. The first had been to collect two girls promised to them by the House of the Hills; the second, which had lasted well over two years, had been to recruit new members for the House. Arthen wondered if four people was considered successful for two years’ work—it seemed a small number to him, but then again he didn’t fully understand these people.

            “Baltasar!” Dezrin greeted when the horses finally came into view.

            The man in the lead grinned broadly. “Dezrin! Haven’t you grown any hair yet?”

            Dezrin laughed and exchanged the traditional greeting with him. Baltasar was older than Arthen had expected, perhaps mid-30’s, with shaggy dark hair that might have a definite red tinge when properly washed. Tall and broad-shouldered, he sat his horse like an experienced warrior, his sword ready at his side. And though he smiled when he glanced questioningly at Arthen, his eyes flickered up and down him, assessing him like an experienced warrior.

            “Oh, this is Arthen,” Dezrin finally said. “He’s been with the House for over a year. He’s a traveler—you wouldn’t believe the places he’s been.”

            “Really,” Baltasar answered, his curiosity piqued. “I’m afraid I will make you repeat all your stories for me later.”

            “Gladly,” Arthen replied.

            Baltasar wheeled his horse around to face the four strangers behind him. “Come on now, don’t be shy,” he told them. “These are members of your new House.” He looked back at Dezrin as the four drew closer. “I think Jesseb will be quite a while paying off our debts to the various Houses. He’ll be along with another bunch in two or three years.” He lowered his voice a little as he added, “Let me tell you, Dezrin, the _women_ they’ve got in the lines now… I almost didn’t come back.” Dezrin laughed heartily; Arthen lifted one corner of his mouth a bit, but fortunately Baltasar didn’t check his reaction.

            “So we’ve got Marto here, from the House of the Coast”—a smooth-skinned young man grinned broadly from atop one of the horses—“and Hexad from the House of the Grey Ocean”—a serious-looking young man with a mop of unserious blond curls nodded firmly—“and also Polinia, from the House of the Lake”—another blond, with pale blue eyes and a smirk—“and Fione from the House of the Sand”—a woman older than the rest, with curly red hair and a warrior’s bearing. “And of course we can’t forget out little bonus prize,” Baltasar added with a pleasant grin, gesturing towards Polinia. She parted her thick grey cloak enough for a small dark head to peep out, belonging to a girl of about five years who sucked on her thumb resolutely. “Picked her up at the House of the Rivers, practically for free. Orphan,” he added, and Dezrin nodded his understanding, although Arthen was bemused by the comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual reference:  
> Lelas--Orlando Bloom  
> Lord Kerrigan--Liam Neeson  
> Dezrin--Vin Diesel  
> Arthen--Viggo Mortensen  
> Baltasar--Sean Bean


	5. Chapter 5

            Baltsaros stirred on the pallet, trying to determine what had awakened him. Oh, yes, the boy—he was fitful in his sleep, as in everything else, and he tossed and turned on the narrow pile of blankets. Baltsaros eased his arm around him carefully, trying to pull him closer without waking him. Arri could be a foolhardy, proud little brat sometimes—well, almost all the time he was conscious, really—but in his sleep he could look almost innocent, and so much younger than the cynical gleam in his eye would have one believe.

            Still asleep, Arri sighed and curled into Baltsaros suddenly, almost knocking him backwards. Baltsaros rolled his eyes but tucked his arm around the boy, hoping he would settle down a bit now. He could feel the scars from a flogging crisscrossing the boy’s back—no doubt the punisher had thought them well deserved at the time, especially if the boy had been as “high-spirited” then as he was now. Baltsaros winced just thinking of the bite the boy had given his shoulder, which had so amused Taxiarchai upon seeing it. But Baltsaros had his own flogging scars, older than the boy’s, and he felt such punishments did little to benefit either giver or recipient.

            Still, there had definitely been a few times in the last week when Baltsaros had seriously contemplated strangling the boy. He was, as advertised, a “handful.” But he was only a boy, no more than nineteen, and the panderer had had charge of him for a good four—Baltsaros didn’t even want to imagine what Arri had been through, though he understood it was the way of things. More mysterious was how the boy had ended up with the panderer in the first place—the man had said something about Arri being kicked out by a previous master, but the boy certainly hadn’t been very forthcoming with details.

**

            Baltsaros and Taxiarchai painstakingly righted a large watering trough, only to see it collapse as soon as it stood properly, and Baltsaros rolled his eyes in frustration. “Oh, the carpenters can fix that fast enough, sir,” Taxiarchai assured him, kicking the pieces into a neater pile.

            “I suppose, but I hadn’t intended to stay here that long,” Baltsaros replied, looking around at the remains of the camp. For a moment Taxiarchai followed his gaze around the smoldering piles of wood and cloth that _used_ to be a fairly respectable respite camp, a place for the company to relax for a few weeks in relative comfort before they continued with their long journey. Of course, the bandit attack had come just at the end of their stay.

            “Well, sir,” Taxiarchai pointed out cheerfully, “it’s saved us the trouble of taking it all down, hasn’t it?”

            Baltsaros gave his old friend a look that conveyed how mystified he was at Taxiarchai’s ability to find a bit of humor—even dark humor—in almost any situation. “I suppose we didn’t get the worst of it, though, did we?” Baltsaros noted, as two of the men carried the body of a dead bandit past. His company was made up of survivors, people who knew how to fight and live, even when surprised, and at the moment he had lost none of them. The bandits had not been so fortunate. But every one of Baltsaros’s people had been accounted for and assessed with no more than moderate injury—

            “Have you seen the boy?” Baltsaros asked with sudden urgency.

            “What boy? Oh, _that_ boy,” Taxiarchai replied, Baltsaros’s sharp glance answering his question. “Not since the fight, when he was tossin’ those daggers around. Wonder where he picked that up, huh?”

            “I thought maybe he was in the tent—“ Baltsaros began, looking back at his half-scorched accommodations.

            “I was just in there,” Taxiarchai told him, shaking his head.

            For some reason, Baltsaros felt very uneasy. “Find him,” he ordered, and Taxiarchai immediately headed in one direction while Baltsaros went in the other. It was only because he hadn’t seen the boy in several hours, not since the thick of the fight, Baltsaros reasoned, and Arri had a pronounced tendency to get into trouble when left unsupervised. He’d not even _thought_ of Arri in that time, which he felt a little guilty about, but the boy seemed surprisingly capable of taking care of himself in a fight—one didn’t learn such knife-throwing on a panderer’s circuit—and with the fires and the injuries and the clean-up, Baltsaros had been a little busy...

            An hour later, Baltsaros was busy doing something else—suppressing his panic. Taxiarchai had corralled everyone who could be spared into searching for the boy—there wasn’t much left of the camp, true, but he could still have found somewhere to hide in the surrounding woods. Baltsaros refused to contemplate the idea that he might have used the confusion of the attack as a cover while he snuck away—the boy had shown no signs of trying to escape so far, and where would he go, anyway? The surrounding villages all knew who he was—at least, they understood his position—and would never welcome him.

            “He’s a stubborn brat, sir, if you don’t mind me saying,” Taxiarchai finally reported, “but we’ve been calling him for an hour now. Surely he would’ve heard us.”

            “Aye,” Baltsaros agreed reluctantly. “Maybe he’s—injured?” The thought bothered him more than he expected.

            Taxiarchai nodded slowly. “If you were lookin’ for a wild animal who’d been injured, where would you expect to find him?”

            Baltsaros looked at his friend, inspiration dawning. “In the darkest, smallest hole he could wedge himself into,” he decided.

            “Aye, that’s what I was thinkin’.”

            “Tear this place apart!” Baltsaros told him decisively. “Every corner, every pile of rubble, every spot that could possibly hold even a _mouse_. I want him found before it gets dark.”

            “Yes, sir,” Taxiarchai murmured as his friend stalked away. Well, he supposed it all would’ve come down at some point.

            An hour and a half later, the sun was hanging low in the sky and Taxiarchai was really beginning to get worried—not about the boy, whose absence from the world wouldn’t trouble him overly, but about his friend, who seemed more attached to the boy than Taxiarchai had anticipated. Arri was pretty enough, if you liked that sort of thing, and spirited enough—again, if you liked that—but such lads were easy enough to find from any panderer. But Taxiarchai could only shrug, and keep digging through piles of stone and wood—who could understand the ways of the heart?

            He was in the stable, the one solid building that had survived the raid, when he noticed a stack of barrels and sacks in the corner he had almost overlooked. Taxiarchai’s impulse was to ignore it, thinking no one bigger than a mouse could crawl into it, but since they hadn’t found the boy anywhere else... Taxiarchai gave the barrels an experimental poke, to see how mobile they were, and nudged the sacks with his food. He was about to leave them when he heard a movement somewhere beneath them. Taxiarchai tugged and pushed, just a bit, until finally he found a pile of sacks loosely draped over the entrance of a barrel that had split and fallen sideways. And sticking out of the barrel was a pair of boots—at least until they were yanked back into the darkness.

            “Boy, is that you in there?” he asked, rapping on the barrel. He was not surprised to receive no answer. But at least the brat was present and alive. “Hey, Meletios!” he called to one of the men. “Think I found ‘im. Go get the Captain.”

            Taxiarchai turned back to the darkened cubbyhole. “Now come on out, lad,” he tried sternly. “Fightin’s over, and the Captain’s lookin’ for ye.”

            “Go away,” came a familiar voice from the darkness.

            Taxiarchai sighed and tried again, with more patience than he thought he possessed. “Come out, lad, what’s the matter? Captain’s been lookin’ for you, he’s right worried.”

            “Leave me alone!”

            “Fine,” Taxiarchai replied in exasperation, dropping down to one knee. “We’ll do this the hard way, then.” Reasoning that the boy’s feet couldn’t be too far away, he reached blindly into the barrel, groping farther through the darkness—and got a sharp heel to his upper arm for his trouble. Swearing, Taxiarchai jerked back, just as Baltsaros came running.

            “Did you find him?” he asked breathlessly.

            “Aye, sir,” Taxiarchai replied dryly, rubbing his bruised arm. “Careful, sir, he’s in a kicking mood,” he added when Baltsaros dropped down in front of the barrel.

            “Come on out, boy,” he coaxed. “Come on, we’ve been looking for you.” There was no reply, and with a concerned glance at Taxiarchai, he ducked under the wooden frame and into the darkness. “Boy?” His voice echoed a bit, but he could see nothing. His hand followed the floor, until suddenly he hit something warm, inciting a painful-sounding moan. Baltsaros pulled back out and looked at his hand in the light—it was sticky with blood. “Take it apart!” he ordered, jerking to his feet. “Meletios! Tell the surgeon!”

            Immediately the men gathered around began yanking away the sacks and barrel lids, prying apart the half-broken wooden staves, until finally the boy appeared. He was curled in a ball on the packing straw, pale as death and shaking despite the heat. His arms were wrapped tightly around himself, but it was easy to see that the whole side of his worn grey tunic was soaked with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual reference:  
> Baltsaros--Sean Bean  
> Arri--Christian Slater  
> Taxiarchai--Daragh O'Malley


	6. Chapter 6

            The air of the bazaar was hot and dry, and smelled of the many unwashed bodies crowding beneath the tents and awnings, or baking in the blazing sun. Cyprien followed his lady closely, giving the warning eye to any heckling merchants or impudent slaves. Even in the summer’s heat she was cool and elegant in her flowing black dress, her face concealed by the netted veil. Cyprien wondered briefly how she could possibly keep from suffering heatstroke in her knee-high boots, gloves past her elbows, and delicate black lace shawl, but his thoughts quickly turned back to his job when he had to brandish his staff at a particularly insistent seller who dared to reach in his lady’s direction.

            Even in the higher-class areas of the bazaar, where the slaves reclined in the cool shade of tents, with food and drink for the potential buyers who happened by, the merchants could be loud and obnoxious. Cyprien greatly preferred to obtain the slaves himself and bring them back to the manor, or at least to have the more reputable merchants visit his lady’s estate with their wares, rather than wander through this lot of miscreants with their rude phrases and vulgar behavior—not that he wasn’t frequently rude and vulgar himself, of course, but never around his lady. It just wasn’t done.

            Cyprien couldn’t read his lady’s expression through her veil, but her leisurely, constant pace suggested she was browsing for something she hadn’t yet found. Usually she found her bedslaves through the recommendation of friends, to be sure they were suitably behaved, handsome, and skilled in a variety of arts; but every once in a while, much to Cyprien’s displeasure, she had a taste for something less refined, and that was when she visited the slave bazaar. Cyprien wasn’t himself interested in the pretty young men peering beguilingly from the tents, but they seemed clean and docile enough, and he recognized some of their merchants as having reputations of high quality. He kept hoping his lady might at least stop and look at some of them, to see if any took her fancy, but unfortunately she barely glanced in their directions.

            Cyprien stifled a sigh as he saw where they were heading, but his lady noticed it. She knew him too well. There was a smile in her low voice as she asked, “Is something wrong, Cyprien?”

            “No, ma’am,” he replied quickly. He knew better than to question her judgment in this particular matter. At least, at this time.

            “We’re heading for the laborers’ aisles,” she pointed out leadingly. “Did you notice?”

            “Are we, ma’am?” he replied innocently. “I’d never have known.” Cyprien nudged one slave who had strayed too near the path out of the way; the man looked 50 but was probably closer to 30, his face worn by years of outdoor labor, his hands wrinkled, his gums nearly toothless when he grinned up at them. “These fellows are _so_ easy to mistake for pampered bedslaves.”

            Bertille chuckled a little at that, her laughter more of a throaty purr. “You just have to keep an eye out for something unexpected,” she advised him.

            “That,” he replied, quickly putting himself between his lady and a drunken patron who staggered by, “is exactly what I do all the time, ma’am.”

            There were a few slaves in the laborers’ camp whose looks weren’t completely beaten away, either by their working conditions or their previous masters, and Bertille seemed to find every one. Still, none received more than a few moments of her attention. She was restless, she wanted something new…and when Lady Bertille wanted something new, it usually meant more trouble for Cyprien.

            He knew exactly which slave had caught his lady’s eye in the upcoming cluster. There was really only one possibility in this particular group, slumped against the poles they were chained to under the sun—a blond lad, mid-twenties perhaps but with an unusually open look about him, who stared at every movement around him with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. Every other muscular but exhausted figure around him kept their eyes firmly on the ground before them.

            The merchant in charge of this lot, a rotund former farmer who’d found a more profitable crop, by the look of him, ambled over with the air of a tavern keeper addressing valued but hardly unique patrons. “Good day, my lady, good day!” he hailed them heartily. Cyprien believed the man would have tried to give his lady’s shoulder a familiar whack if he hadn’t intervened. “What can I show you today, my lady?”

            Bertille inclined her head at the blond lad at her feet, who was staring up at her in undisguised awe. His eyes, she noted, were a very lovely shade of light green, almost blue-green. The merchant poked the lad hard in the leg with his foot, as a reminder to drop his gaze in respect for his betters. Then he yanked on his shoulder until the blond clambered to his feet. “Oh, he’s a fine one, my lady, a fine one indeed,” the merchant began.

            “He’s a bit thin,” Bertille countered disapprovingly.

            “Wiry, ma’am, wiry,” the merchant assured her. “Strong as an ox. And a good hard worker, aren’t you, boy?” The blond nodded once. “Not a big talker, this one, but you hardly need that, do you, ma’am?” the merchant continued. Cyprien noted the slave’s continued furtive glances at Bertille. “Now what this lad’s good at is the outdoor stuff—herds and flocks, fields and gardens. He’s very talented at it. Comes from good farming stock, in the Clifflands.” At the mention of his homeland the blond cast a quick, sobering look at the merchant. The older man paused without noticing his slave’s behavior. “Are you looking for an outdoor laborer, ma’am?”

            “No,” Bertille answered succinctly.

            Despite his provincial appearance, the merchant had been in the business long enough to know exactly what she meant. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, then shifted his approach. “Well, he’s a good, sweet lad, wouldn’t hurt a fly, ma’am, but a bit _simple_ if you know what I mean. Not had much experience with what _you’ve_ got in mind.” The blond risked a glance at the merchant that held more than a hint of confusion—apparently he couldn’t even imagine what Lady Bertille might have in mind.

            “Let’s see him,” Bertille decided.

            The merchant shrugged. “Come on, boy, off with it, then.” He didn’t have much problem yanking the rough field shirt off over his head or dropping his homespun trousers—lots of customers wanted him to strip, even in the crowded marketplace, to make sure he was healthy and strong, he supposed, and he had long since gotten used to it. Some of them could be a bit… _grabby_ , though, which he didn’t care for, but surely this beautiful lady was far too elegant for that sort of behavior. In fact, what she reached for was his face, turning it towards her with a hand covered in a silky black glove.

            “What happened to him?” she asked, gazing up at the healing scars that curved around his left eye.

            “Oh, what was that,” the merchant thought aloud. “Oh, yes, a minor field accident. Caught the end of a scythe, didn’t you, boy?” The merchant slapped his bare shoulder congenially. “Lucky it was the blunt end!”

            Cyprien might have believed that story if the slave himself hadn’t turned to his seller with a look that all but called him a liar. No, _mistaken_ —that’s what the boy would have said, if he were so inclined, Cyprien decided. So then the injury—and probably some of the bruises visible on the rest of his body—resulted from something the merchant was loathe to mention. Discipline from his master for disobedience, perhaps, or a fight. Still, the younger man didn’t _seem_ like the violent sort…

            If Cyprien could have seen his lady’s face, he was sure she’d be arching an eyebrow in disbelief as well. Fortunately all the merchant could ascertain was the nod that indicated his slave could get dressed again.

            Before he could even get his clothes settled she was touching him again, her gloved fingers burning a spot on his jaw, it seemed. He kept trying to peer through her veil, to make out the features he knew had to be far more lovely than any he had seen in his limited experience, but every once in a while he remembered he was supposed to keep his eyes averted. She stood much closer to him than most prospective customers did, and he thought he could detect the clean, flowery scent of her perfume. Or perhaps sitting out in the sun all day with little water was starting to go to his head.

            “What’s your name?” she asked, in her rich, velvety voice.

            “Audric,” he answered quietly, then quickly added, “Ma’am.”

            She looked past him to the merchant. “How much?”

            The man smiled beatifically, as if making a perfect match between slave and owner were all the payment he needed—but since she _asked_ … “Well, ma’am, Lady Morgance said the lad was quite valuable to her—looks after her prize hunting dogs, don’t you know—and I wasn’t to let him go for any less than… eighty.”

            “Eighty?” Lady Bertille replied with skepticism. “I wouldn’t pay eighty for a skilled craftsman, let alone a dogwatcher.”

            The slave turned back to the merchant, the expression on his face showing clear concern that his high asking price would drive the lady away. Cyprien was becoming somewhat concerned himself—there was something about the lad’s demeanor that could be dangerous, he thought. The boy looked as if he’d walked off a cliff and had no intention of going back.

            The merchant gripped the slave’s shoulder firmly, probably to hold him still, Cyprien decided. Smiling tightly, he countered, “Well, ma’am, he’s young and strong and healthy and gentle as a lamb, and you’d pay a good sight more than eighty for that if he were in the next section up. He’s a bargain, this lad is.”

            “If he were trained, experienced, _maybe_ ,” Lady Bertille allowed coolly. “But he’ll need to be… _acclimated_ , won’t he? So I can’t imagine he’s worth more than fifty to me now.”

            Audric was getting agitated. He had to go with the beautiful, veiled lady, he just _had_ to. He didn’t know what she meant by “acclimated,” but he had always picked up on new jobs quickly. He could learn whatever she wanted him to do. He didn’t know anything about dogs when Lord Morgance bought him, and now his wife’s dogs wouldn’t listen to anyone else. So he just _knew_ the beautiful lady would be pleased with him, if she gave him a chance.

            “I could perhaps go down to seventy,” the merchant allowed. “But only because he’s such a good lad, and I’d hate to see him end as cheap fodder for the mines.” He clapped the slave roughly on the shoulder. “Them mines would take the shine right out of those pretty eyes, wouldn’t they, Audric?” Audric nodded quickly, stealing a glance at the lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual reference:  
> Cyprien--Daragh O'Malley  
> Bertille--Angelina Jolie  
> Audric--Sean Bean


	7. Chapter 7

Meredith awoke with a dull ache in her head and something prickly sticking into her back. The something prickly turned out to be the straw she was lying on, which seemed to form the mattress of someone’s bed. Well, her bed at the moment as she was lying on it, but whose was it normally? The air around her was close and warm, and faintly smoky as in a small room with an open fire. As she struggled to focus her vision, she saw flames dancing in the hearth not far away.

“Ah, there you are,” said a voice she didn’t recognize. “How do you feel?” A strange man dropped something into the pot bubbling over the fire and turned to look at her inquisitively when she didn’t answer right away.

“Where am I?” Meredith asked. Her mouth felt dry and pasty.

The man swung a teakettle out from the fireplace and poured her a mug of tea. “Here, drink this,” he suggested, handing it over. “You’re in my cabin,” he went on, as she pushed herself up and sipped the tea. “In the woods. Name’s Franco.”

“The woods?” Meredith repeated dully. She started to push the blankets covering her away. “I have to get home,” she insisted, looking around for her cloak.

“Hold on there,” Franco said. “Lie back down, come on. It’s no fit night to be out.”

Meredith had to admit she could hear the wind howling outside the cabin, brushing the branches of the trees against the shutters. It must be quite late by now.

Suddenly she remembered what had delayed her. “What happened to—“

“Don’t worry about them,” Franco assured her. “They won’t be bothering you again.”

Meredith was about to question him further when a face suddenly appeared at the window in the door, startling her. The man tapped on the glass eagerly and, to her dismay, she thought she recognized him.

Franco seemed pleased, however. “Ah, _there’s_ Callum.” He unlatched the door and a man—if he _was_ a man—bounded into the room, accompanied by the roar of the wind.

Meredith scrambled up onto the bed defensively and Franco barely had time to wrestle the cabin door shut before he turned and grabbed the man’s collar. “Callum!” he said sharply, reining the man in awkwardly. “Gentle, hmm? Don’t scare her.”

Too late, Meredith thought, drawing the blanket around herself protectively. The person kneeling on the floor at Franco’s feet was not exactly terrifying in his appearance; but the way he moved, the way he acted, just wasn’t natural at all. Though fully clothed and clean-shaven, he frankly reminded her more of a creature than a man—a dog maybe, or a panther. As if sensing her thoughts he cocked his head and regarded her curiously, his green eyes bright in the firelight.

Franco patted his shoulder affectionately and went back to the fire, leaving this Callum free to crawl over to Meredith and start sniffing her. “He won’t hurt you,” Franco said dismissively, stirring the pot.

“He _bit_ me,” Meredith pointed out, remembering the wound on her shoulder that had not yet healed. Callum hopped up onto the bed and continued sniffing her more intently.

“That was meant affectionately,” Franco insisted. “He saved you from those bandits, after all.” Having apparently sniffed all the scent off her, Callum flopped down unexpectedly in Meredith’s lap and made himself comfortable. “He follows you through the woods all the time,” Franco added. “Every time you go back and forth.”

“Do you go with him?” Meredith asked a bit suspiciously, trying unsuccessfully to push Callum off her lap.

Franco snorted. “No, I’ve got better things to do with my time. No offense,” he added. “You missed a week, and he got worried. That’s why he jumped down from the trees, to check on you.”

“And to bite me,” Meredith reminded him pointedly. “Anyway, how do you know all this if you weren’t with him?” She gave up pushing on Callum, who had seemed to find it playful, and crossed her arms over her chest. Callum made a whining noise in the back of his throat.

“He wants you to pet him,” Franco pointed out. “And he _told_ me all about what happened.”

“How? By whining?” Meredith asked icily. She did, however, consent to pat Callum’s shoulder.

“He can talk,” Franco replied, though his tone acknowledged that wasn’t obvious. “Sometimes, when he tries.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Meredith inquired in confusion. Callum sighed with great satisfaction at her meager petting efforts and snuggled into her lap even more.

“Well,” Franco replied thoughtfully, dishing up some of the stew he’d been cooking, “he’s just not entirely human.” Meredith gave him a curious look and Franco shrugged. “I don’t know how or why. But I’ve seen him do things no human can do. He’s stronger, faster, more agile, more instinctive—“ He broke off, as if worried he’d said too much. “I can’t explain it. Come here, Callum, come on,” he coaxed, shaking the bowl of stew a bit. “That’s right, come have some dinner.”

Callum hesitated a moment, then leaped off the bed heedlessly and bounded over to Franco, who set the bowl on the table. “Come on, sit up here,” the older man insisted, patting one of the chairs. “Sit up at the table like we’ve practiced.” Awkwardly Callum sat in the chair—clearly it wasn’t his favorite position. Franco handed him a spoon and corrected how he held it. “That’s it, let’s impress the little lady with your manners. Don’t be messy, now!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual reference:  
> Meredith--Kelli Williams  
> Franco--Harvey Keitel  
> Callum--Tim Roth


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside modern Paris, surrounded by walls, is a perpetual Victorian-era enclave of courtesans and dance halls, that knows little of the outside world.

Silvain sipped his hot drink from the tiny porcelain cup, savoring the bitter flavor of coffee lightened just a tiny bit by chocolate. He had tried this in some of the finest coffee shops in all of France, but nowhere was it as good as in this _très bourgeois_ café.

“This is a wonderful little place,” his companion commented, glancing around the small room. It was more crowded than usual, the patrons from the outside tables having been driven inside by the drizzle. “Do you come here often?”

He smiled at her, enjoying the brightness of her blue eyes, the shine of her red hair. How many times had he come to the Old City, yet he had never ventured to L’Éléphant Verte and met her? “Every time I’m in town,” he replied smoothly. He nodded out the plate glass window. “Actually I grew up in one of those houses. It’s down the block a bit.”

Her eyes widened in surprise as she surveyed the elegant Victorian townhouses. “You grew up here?” she repeated. “In one of the mansions along the park? You _must_ be rich.”

He shrugged. “My father was a banker. Very conservative. When I finished school, my uncle—in the South—invited me to summer with him.” He leaned forward on the red checkered tablecloth and lowered his voice a bit. “The funny thing is, _most_ people, rich or poor, never leave the city walls. My uncle was considered quite a rebel for doing so.”

The lady seemed shocked and alarmed by this notion, and Silvain sighed, trying to find the words to express himself without contaminating the era here. “There’s a whole different world out there, Hyacinthe. Full of things no one here has ever seen. And I fell in love with it.” He leaned back in the wrought iron chair, away from the dangerous curiosity in her expression. “I still come back to visit my mother. Sometimes I bring her grandchildren, but they don’t adapt as well to… the conventions here.”

Hyacinthe’s eyes brightened with a familiar light. “Oh, you have children?”

Again he wondered about that particular kind of light, but he also smiled and answered, “Yes, I have four children.”

Her expression calmed a bit and turned somewhat haughty—too deliberately for Silvain to believe it. “You and _your wife_ must be very happy.”

Silvain couldn’t help it, he chuckled—both at the idea of being married and at her attempt to conceal her interest with typical courtesan banter. “What would you say,” he began conversationally, “if I told you that I wasn’t married?” Her red-gold eyebrow arched delicately, to just the angle that drove him crazy. “If I told you that I have two women bound to me?”

Her eyes widened, but only a little, then narrowed in suspicion. “For your personal use?”

“For my personal use _only_ ,” he assured her.

“Two women for your own personal use,” she mused flirtatiously. “That’s very impressive. And they’ve given you four children? You’ve not had them long, then?”

“Well,” Silvain said slowly, “outside the city walls they do things a bit differently. People don’t have so many children. And generally they _do_ get married, instead of being bound. So I must adapt as well.”

“Tell me,” she began coaxingly, and he sighed inwardly at his foolishness, “what it’s like outside the Old City.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he told her firmly, softening it with a smile.

“But I’ve never so much as left the neighborhood of L’Éléphant Verte before,” she protested. “I’m just dying to know about life beyond the city walls!”

Silvain glanced around the café, searching for anyone who looked like a plainclothes gendarme. Contaminating the era of the Old City was a serious offense; but he also wouldn’t want to take away its old-fashioned charm, even if he were allowed to. He dropped some francs on the table and pulled Hyacinthe to her feet.

“Come on,” he enticed her. “Let’s go do some shopping, hmm?”

She smiled and knew better than to pursue the matter, though he suspected he hadn’t heard the last of her questions.

**

“What is it that you do for a living?” she asked casually that evening, when they were curled up in the garish green satin bed in her room.

“I make money,” he replied flippantly, leaning down to kiss her.

“Yes, but how?” she persisted when they both came up for air.

Silvain paused, trying to figure out how he could explain that he ran one of Europe’s largest television empires to a woman who had never heard of television or even radio. “Theatres,” he finally replied. “I own several theatres.”

Hyacinthe’s eyes popped in a way that made Silvain fear he’d be bending the truth all night. “Really?” she asked excitedly, sitting up. “Real theatres? With plays and musicals?”

“Yes, real theatres, with plays and musicals,” he answered, grinning with bemusement at her excitement.

“Not just vaudeville and dancing girls?”

“Well,” he smirked, “I suppose there’s a _few_ dancing girls…”

She was quiet for a moment, then blurted out, “I have always wanted to be a _real actress_.” Silvain groaned, realizing he’d been caught, and rolled over in bed. She tapped at his shoulder gently and continued, “A _real_ actress in a _real_ play, not just the can-can shows here.”

“Hyacinthe—“ he began.

“I can sing, I can dance, I know I can act,” she said hungrily. “A courtesan’s _life_ is acting, making men believe that—“ She stopped herself, aware she’d said the wrong thing, but he only quirked an eyebrow at her in amusement. “I mean,” she continued in a calmer tone, “playing to the crowd, and all that. That’s acting.” Seeing that he wasn’t offended by her slip of the tongue, she repeated, “I _know_ I could be a real actress. All I need is a chance.”

“Hyacinthe!” he protested, turning back over.

“No theatre in the Old City is going to hire a courtesan,” she reminded him. “But if I could just get a job outside the city walls, where no one had heard of me—“

“Hyacinthe, go to sleep,” he told her, with a little bit of irritation.

“Will you think about it, anyway?” she asked.

“Fine,” he replied shortly. “I’ll think about it. Alright?”

“Alright,” she agreed, curling up against his back. That was _some_ progress, anyway.

**

He was a little earlier than he’d expected, even with the stop for some flowers, so he bypassed the main door and headed straight up to her bedroom to wait for her to finish rehearsals. It seemed a little silly to him that Renaud insisted she perform in the dance shows when she was already taken for two weeks—although she _did_ look beautiful in them—but he supposed Renaud just wanted to remind future customers that she would be available again soon.

Silvain was about to enter her room when he noticed that the light was on. He paused at the door, hearing muffled voices inside, then instinctively ducked back into a dark corner when it opened. A plain, severe-looking woman in her forties came out and shut the door carefully behind her, then headed purposefully down the hall. Bemused, Silvain waited until she was out of sight, then walked into the garish green bedroom.

At first everything seemed to be in place, until a movement at the table in the center of the room caught his eye. Kneeling in the plush armchair near the table was a little girl, just seven or eight, who was digging through Hyacinthe’s jewelry box and playing dress-up with the sparkling cut glass pieces. One look at her curly red-gold hair told him exactly who she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual reference:  
> Hyacinthe--Nicole Kidman  
> Silvain--Ewan McGregor


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wealthy young woman contemplates a new purchase.

“Mmm, he _is_ delicious,” the girl mused, peering through her opera glasses at the stage. “ _Quite_ tasty. Don’t you think so, Jack?” There was no answer from her companion. “Jack?” Finally she turned to the man who sat beside her in the coach, to find him smirking and winking flirtatiously at a young woman in the crowd surrounding them. “Jack!” Kitty smacked him in the ribs then reached across him and yanked the shade down over the window.

“Beg your pardon, mistress,” he assured her in a conciliatory tone, quickly focusing all his attention on her.

Kitty glared for a moment, then rolled her eyes and handed him the glasses. “The one on the end,” she told him, and Jack leaned across her to look.

After a brief examination he flopped back in his seat. “Pretty enough,” he concluded, “but he’s just a puppy. If you’re willing to train him up…”

Kitty snatched the glasses back and stared at the boy again. “Well, he’s certainly younger than _you_ ,” she commented with irritation, and he rolled his eyes without concern, “but he’s _hardly_ a puppy.”

“I don’t mean in terms of _age_ , my ladylove,” he replied hintingly. “I _mean_ , I strongly doubt his previous occupation included the skills _you_ appreciate.”

“You don’t mean he’s a…”

“As the day he was born, my darling,” Jack confirmed, casually cleaning his nails.

She hadn’t taken her eyes off the boy, however, and seemed to ponder this news. “Hmmm…” Jack’s eyes slid over to her. “That could be… interesting.” He sighed and slumped back in the seat, shifting his hat down over his eyes. Interesting? More like _explosive_. There’d be no peace for him now.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's pet has gotten loose. Fortunately, there's a professional slave manager staying at the resort.

Okello yawned and shifted a bit in the enormous leather chair near the fire. His black boots dangled carelessly over one arm of the chair, and one elbow rested on the overstuffed back. For a moment he tried to concentrate on the next sentence in his book, but after reading it without interest for the third time, he sighed and let his gaze drift around the dark lounge, in search of anything more entertaining.

Some resort, he sniffed to himself when he saw no one except an equally bored clerk. Oh, it was quite alright—Allopu had been right about _that_. And after the excitement of his last job, quiet was what Okello wanted right now.

Just not this _much_ of it.

He sighed again, ran a hand through his dark hair, and redevoted himself to the book. Okello had almost gotten through the paragraph when a muffled shouting caught his attention—it was followed by a crash, then more yelling, as the commotion apparently moved down the hallway toward the lounge. Okello watched the entrance to the hall with interest, curious to see what would emerge.

It was a boy, it turned out, a boy in Eastern clothes—with a collar and chain around his neck. Someone’s pet, then, Okello decided, watching the lad’s frantic, indecisive movements. Someone’s pet on the loose.

The boy was no more than a teenager, slender, with pale skin and light brown hair. An import, possibly, since he didn’t fit the usual local appearance. He started for the main doors, but a crowd of irate-looking hotel employees dashed in to cut him off. Then he twisted around and aimed for the back of the hotel, but another group appeared to block that escape route as well.

He was closer to Okello now, close enough for him to see that the lad’s wide eyes were a sky-deep blue and that his panicking features were finely cut, almost delicate. Like an angel’s, perhaps. An angel who was about to be beaten to a bloody pulp by the advancing angry guards.

“Boy!” Okello called out sharply, drawing everyone’s attention. “Come here.” The boy hesitated, rechecking his options. “Now!” Okello’s tone was more irritated than anything else, and contained the confidence that the boy would do exactly as he commanded; he knew that was the only way to compel the teen to obey him in the current situation. He had to act differently from everyone else in the room, everyone else who expected the boy to run and was furious about the disturbance he’d caused. It also helped that the boy’s nemeses, the hotel guards, were glancing at each other in confusion, uncertain what to do about interference from one of their privileged guests.

Almost against his will, the boy dragged himself across the hardwood floor, towards Okello and away from the guards. Okello nodded curtly at the floor and the boy dropped to his knees automatically before the chair. Okello held his hand out almost lazily, eyes shifting back to his book as if becoming bored. The boy hesitated, biting his full bottom lip, and Okello gave him a look of irritation and snapped his fingers. His shoulders slumping in defeat, the boy laid the chain attached to his collar in Okello’s hand.

As soon as Okello gripped it firmly he swung his feet down to the floor and straightened up. He tilted the boy’s head up to the light and saw tears beginning to sparkle in his eyes; there was also the imprint of a blow reddening on his cheek.

“Now, who do you belong to, boy?” Okello asked, reluctantly dropping his hand from the lad’s face. He was beautiful, even with his face blotching up from tears and smacks, and just the type Okello had always liked best.

“Lord Ejau,” the boy mumbled, staring at Okello’s boots.

“And where is he?” The boy’s thin shoulders shrugged and Okello yanked on the chain, snapping the boy’s head up. “I said, where is your master?”

“Right here, sir!” an angry voice shouted from the front of the room, and the boy jumped and glanced behind him at the wealthy but disheveled figure storming towards them. The boy would have tried desperately to scramble away, but Okello pulled his riding crop out and slapped it on the floor beside the boy.

“Be still,” he ordered, and the lad complied, though he tried to shrink back against the chair as much as possible.

“So glad that you caught the little mongrel!” Lord Ejau enthused, when he reached them. He seemed torn between embarrassment for himself, and anger at the boy. “He’s feeling a little spirited today, ha ha!”

Some slaves were spirited; Okello considered it a good thing. But he knew people often used the word incorrectly, to be mean badly-behaved and unmanageable. No slave was unmanageable, in his professional opinion. But a lot of owners were bad _at_ managing.

“Your boy, is he?” Okello checked. “Would you consider selling him?” The words were out before he had really thought them through—Allopu was going kill him for this impulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual reference:  
> Okello--Vincent Perez  
> The boy--Lee Williams


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An isolated magical land gets an unexpected visit from the outside world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visual reference:  
> Vincent Perez in Indochine

The newly-risen sun was just beginning to chase away the mist that clung like a silvery veil to the stone outcropping when Mai Ly padded softly down to the edge of the lagoon. Her attendants followed her, of course—they always followed her—but the business of the day had not yet begun for most of the population and nothing broke the quiet of the morning except the gentle lapping of the waves against the land. Mai Ly carefully pulled the hem of her violet gown away from the water’s edge and crouched down to grab a handful of the cool liquid to splash her face with. The morning was peaceful, alright, she decided, gazing across the blue water, but there was something strange in the air, something expectant…

Suddenly Luned gasped and pointed to something just out of Mai Ly’s view, around the rocky ridge. After a moment the object bobbed into sight, a small reed boat with a torn red sail—not one of _their_ boats, but a boat from Beyond. How it passed through to them was something Mai Ly would worry about later—right now she wanted to know who or what the vessel carried.

No one appeared to be guiding it, as it drifted lazily along, bumping here and there along the shore until it finally spun towards the natural stone dock on which Mai Ly stood. Some of her attendants were trying to pull her back, and Luned had already run for the guard, but Mai Ly had no intention of leaving just yet. As the boat slid closer, she was able to glimpse the interior at last—only one person, it appeared, stretched out on the bottom of the craft as though dead; she could just make out dark boots and trouser legs that had once been white.

“Come away, milady, please,” Cainwen pleaded, tugging on her arm.

Mai Ly brushed her off. “No. Go fetch some water, quickly.” The girl seemed only too happy to oblige.

Finally the boat gently nudged the stone at Mai Ly’s feet and she wrapped a trailing rope around its bow to keep it in place. Then at last she was able to get her first good look at the boat’s occupant—and for a moment the act of breathing seemed unimportant.

He was beautiful, that was the only way to describe him. To say he had short, very dark hair untidied by the elements, or golden-olive skin that was slightly sunburned, or a trim figure in some kind of worn white suit was all true; but it did not convey accurately how the curve of his nose or the set of his lips seemed for form a view as perfect as a natural landscape. Or how, for an instant, Mai Ly’s world seemed to collapse down to his eyes, which didn’t even twitch as she gently reached out to touch his cheek. It was still warm; though he looked as though the sun and sea had been rough on him, perhaps he was not yet dead.

A slight breeze that lifted the corner of his jacket, occurring simultaneously with a tiny cry, finally drew Mai Ly’s attention away from his face—and down to the bundle kept carefully beneath his coat. She pulled the cloth away and found a little human creature curled against his chest, an infant of an age they had not seen here for many years. It squirmed again, indicating its liveliness, and Mai Ly quickly picked it up, trying to support all the bits that seemed unable to support themselves. The poor little thing had no doubt had an even worse voyage than the beautiful young man who cared for it, but it was almost too worn out to protest. Cainwen had fortunately brought the drinking water and Mai Ly squeezed drops of it into the child’s parched mouth.

“Where is Tuyet?” Mai Ly asked urgently, scanning the silent crowd that had gathered just above her.

An older woman with snow-white hair squeezed into view and hurried to Mai Ly’s side, her speed and agility outpacing her apparent years. “Why, it’s a baby, milady!” she exclaimed upon reaching the stone point.

“Yes, I realize that,” Mai Ly pointed out irritably. “Do you know what to do with one?”

Tuyet pursed her lips in thought. “Well, milady,” she finally decided, “I could look it up in the Books of the Ancestors.”

“Well, you’d better start by finding out what it eats and drinks,” Mai Ly told her, putting the bundle in the older woman’s arms.

“Oh, a little weak tea and some cream to start should be safe for just about anyone, milady,” Tuyet decided, rocking the creature contentedly. Her assistant Owena immediately dashed off to fetch the items.

Mai Ly took the clay pot of water and stepped carefully into the boat, kneeling down beside the young man. He looked so lovely, so peaceful, that she was almost hesitant to wake him. She dipped a rag into the water and rung it out, then very carefully began to wipe his sun-reddened face. After a moment he stirred, and the tiny twitches of his beautiful face coming to life were, she decided, even better than he had looked in repose. She dipped the rag into the water again, but this time rung it out over his face, letting the cool water trickle down his cheeks. He opened his mouth to catch the drops, tilting his head to follow the liquid. Finally his eyes fluttered and opened, revealing two green-brown bottomless pools that stared into hers for a long moment before he blinked and began to look around.

His hand slid towards where the little creature had been tucked and when it wasn’t found, the young man began to move faster than Mai Ly would have thought possible at this point. “Mon fis,” he mumbled in a strange tongue, his mind still dazed. He turned, rocking the boat, searching for the child. “Mon petit enfant, mon bébé…”

Turning his chin Mai Ly directed his gaze towards Tuyet, who sat on a stone ledge spooning food into the little creature’s mouth and making silly faces at it. “It’s alright, Tuyet will care for it,” Mai Ly assured him.

He seemed to understand her tone, if not her words, and collapsed back into the boat. Mai Ly carefully doled out some more water to him, not too much lest he become sick, and fingered the strange jewels pinned to his jacket with curiosity. Haltingly he asked her a question, but she shook her head, unfamiliar with his language.


End file.
